


Pedal

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Series: if you wanna go anywhere (I don't mind) [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 1980s, 1985, Back to the Future References, Banter, Billy Hargrove Is an Asshole, Character Study, Chocolate Box 2019, Coming In Pants, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Jossed, Kissing, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 02, Recreational Drug Use, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Teenagers, The Gate Is Closed, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-26 20:42:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17753159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Steve blinks perplexedly. Aggressive eye contact is par for the course with Hargrove, who only seems to have two speeds: asshole and utter psycho.





	Pedal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Knowmefirst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knowmefirst/gifts).



> January 18-22, 1985, and the record-breaking arctic outbreak: Totally true, folks! The "freeze of the century" and all that. I tried to get my references as accurate as possible. For anything I might have missed it's artistic license all the way.
> 
> @Knowmefirst: I just freestyled with this. Don't know if it's quite what you had in mind when you said "crack that frozen heart". I mean. I could've taken it literally; instead, it's sort of metaphor and shit. I hope you enjoy.

Steve is over it, for the most part.

It helps that 1985 starts off as if Hawkins, and the rest of the country, is being teleported _literally_ to the Arctic for about a week.

That third Monday in January Steve won't soon forget, in a different way from how he won't forget all the shit which came before. You can't take a breath anywhere, indoors or outside, without your lungs catching fire. It slithers up his sinuses, and Steve feels like he can finally breathe deeply and exhale the past year or so into a cloud of stale breath hovering in front of his face, until it finally dissipates.

They postpone the presidential inauguration to that Monday. Steve watches on the TV in their living room, warily eyeing the dead, frozen tree branches swaying outside unbeknownst to his sedate parents lounging behind him. The images on the tube crackle every few minutes. _Like a Virgin_ is still in the charts on every station, and Steve is just trying to graduate in one piece. May can't come soon enough.

He walks the halls of the school like a person who knows where his next step is coming from. He doesn't apply to any colleges. His parents are tight-lipped and hard-eyed when he breaks the news to them over a bland Wednesday-night dinner sometime in early March. Deflection can only take you so far with the Harringtons, but denial and disinterest are valued commodities still. He lives to see his graduation, one foot in front of the other. He attends the ceremony, but can't think back on it, even mere hours afterwards, without a thin film of something pale grey and sticky clouding each scene and snapshot in his head. He holds his high school diploma tighter, the thick paper crinkling between his fingers, and maybe believes he made it.

January to February, and all the way through to May, he doesn't so much avoid Nancy as brush his gaze over her in the hallways, her in the cafeteria, her in the parking lot, until he can watch her and Jonathan from his car and drive off knowing there isn't anything there for him, not anymore.

He starts becoming wary of parties and he eventually stops getting invited to them. After all, no one wants a former golden boy turned perfect stranger in their house, drinking their alcohol, wandering from room to room, looking for a space of his own he won't ever find among other complete strangers. That's perfectly fine; his father's scotch collection is more than plentiful. He indulges until about a month before graduation. It's pointless to touch the stuff when the sun finally starts beating down onto Hawkins, bright enough at last to warm his skin and take some of the chill away. In any case, he hates scotch.

And then the summer stretches in front of him, huge and never-ending. Babysitting isn't his jam anymore. Dustin stops asking, but watches Steve wistfully when they cross paths in the cereal aisle and Steve walks away. The Gate is closed.

He's not rushing through his life, all pedal to the metal. His father resorts to grunting in his general direction by way of greeting whenever he enters the room. His mother switches midway through April from vodka spritzers to vodka on the rocks. Steve may be a shitty son, but they're not exactly stellar parents. His allowance never suffers, though. He doesn't have anything to spend it on, nothing he wants that he can buy with money, so it goes in a manilla envelope between his mattress and the box-spring. The bat with the nails in it he hides in the back of his closet. He needs to move out, and soon.

He walks into his local garage the week after graduation and walks out with a part-time job, six hours per day, four days per week. Joey at the garage thinks it could turn into a full-time gig mid-way through the summer or earlier even, provided Steve learns how to handle a car right in record time. Steve isn't the brightest tool in the shed, but Joey seems willing to be patient, and Steve's got nothing but time and patience now. His father merely grunts some more when he lets them know, but his mother doesn't go for another refill, so maybe that's something.

Huey Lewis and the News are all over the radio waves by the last week of June. Steve gets engine grease in places he never knew engine grease could end up. It's turning into a crisp, moody summer.

Starcourt Mall freaks the hell out of him for no reason at all. Maybe it's too much concrete and steel and glass after he's gotten used to so little: things (the bare essentials to get a car going), people (whoever's loitering around the garage at any given moment), crowds (Steve shivers, but not as hard as when he stares into a thick copse of dark trees after sundown). It has a deluxe cinema, whatever that means other than loud, rowdy crowds and stale popcorn everywhere. Steve prefers a seat in the back rows of their quaint Elm Street theatre on an empty Sunday morning so he can imagine himself as Michael J. Fox up on the screen, with a time machine of his own back to 1983.

At any rate, he's free on Sunday. He's free every Sunday, unless Joey starts needing him under the hood. He buys his cinema ticket in advance. He tells himself it's to beat the crowd.

He stays late at the garage on Thursday night. July Fourth. His parents are in Chicago for the long weekend. Steve's not invited. He'd started working full-time that Monday, doing overtime every night of the week, getting in at odd hours and descending the stairs in the morning for a stilted breakfast only half of the time. Steve's definitely not invited.

He's groggy the next day, exhaustion building up as it tends to do by the Friday of a workweek, more so this week, but Joey needs him to open up and man the place until early afternoon. The streets are mostly deserted. Steve imagines people passed out in unlikely places, clothes smelling of firework fumes and spilt fizzy wine. That used to be him, he thinks idly, and reaches for another wrench.

The Camaro pulls up around noon while Steve's underneath Terry Johnson's dad's blue Pontiac Sunbird hatchback.

He can hear AC/DC blasting through the speakers long before Billy Hargrove pulls the breaks.

The tires screech on the gravel and the driver's side door bursts open. Steve can see it all at eye-level from underneath the Sunbird. He wheels himself forward when Billy walks over and hoists himself to stand on his own two feet. The sudden headrush is worth it so he can plant his feet in the gravel and surreptitiously breathe in. Grease and fresh air and cigarette smoke from the one dangling casually from Hargrove's lips. Billy Hargrove is all swagger sauntering over on loose legs. Leaves the driver's side door open behind him. AC/DC switches to early Led Zeppelin.

_King Billy,_ his brain supplies. Steve swallows against his very dry mouth. The air is stuffy from car fumes or whatever, and Hargrove's infuriating smirk grows the closer he gets.

The Camaro's paintwork shines in the weak sun behind him. Steve instinctively checks the location of all his tools because he'd like to avoid giving the guy an opening as much as possible.

"Hargrove," he says, wiping his hands on an even dirtier rag. His fingers keep twitching. Needs to keep them busy.

"All alone, princess?" Drags a deep smoke, cigarette still dangling precariously. Watches Steve, one hip cocked. It's ridiculous.

Steve's fingers are still twitching. He wipes them again.

"Can I help you? Or are you just here to waste my time? Some of us have shit to do, you know," he nods towards the Sunbird. He doesn't say it all in a rush, but he's damn close and he'll really be damned if he lets Billy Hargrove fluster him.

If he'd been brushing past Nancy all those months, steps level and eyes blank, he'd been pointedly ignoring Billy Hargrove like his life depended on it. He thought it might, at some point, but now he knows he could've maybe been his second or something in the school instead of it being someone like Tommy H, a real joke. _Prince Steve._

His mind is all muddy when he considers it, seriously considers it, because being Second to Billy Hargrove is different than being Second to Jonathan Byers. His brain is all slow to process the difference because he just doesn't know what's worse and what's better. Steve knows there's a difference there, if only he could put his finger on it. Hargrove is still yapping and it's hard to think.

"That any way to treat a paying customer, Harrington?" He drops the cig and snuffs it with the toe of one of his Chucks.

"Cut the shit, Hargrove." Steve sighs. "What do you want?"

"I'm hurt, Harrington. Truly hurt. And here I thought we were bosom buddies." He clutches at his chest with the most shit-eating grin Steve's ever seen, then turns it into a smirk.

Steve scoffs. "Right. Bosom buddies." He doesn't want a fight. Another fight. Punches or words. He really does have shit to do. "Always a pleasure to be in your company." Maybe if he physically leaves the premises this asshole will finally get a clue. Guy sure likes beating around the bush, or just plain hearing himself talk shit.

"Playing tough today, Bambi?"

He cocks his head when he says it, then postures in Steve's general direction like a grade-A shithead. Does that thing where he mouth-breathes like a total jerk-off while he licks his lower lip or whatever. The fine hairs on the back of Steve's neck stand up. He's annoyed or whatever.

"Not really. Just don't have time for your shit _today_ , Hargrove."

"Too bad. As I said, paying customer." He threw his thumb over his shoulder straight at the Camaro. "Keeps stalling. Think it might be a faulty ignition switch. Don't feel like having the engine shut down in the middle of fucking nowhere, so I brought it over."

Genuine car trouble. This Steve knows.

He circles around Hargrove and walks up to the Camaro. Feels the summer heat coming off the shiny surface as he gets closer. It'd be warm to the touch, maybe a little hot, sun too weak to get it scorching yet. Maybe if Hargrove ramps it up for a couple of hours more and the engine doesn't stall out in the middle.

"I'll have to check the rest of the electrical system. See if that's intact. Usually is, and it's the switch which needs replacing, as you said." He turns back to Hargrove, who's fixing him with an unreadable stare.

Steve blinks perplexedly. Aggressive eye contact is par for the course with Hargrove, who only seems to have two speeds: asshole and utter psycho. The looks he seems fond of giving Steve could fall into either category, and Steve suspects it's most often both at the same time. But it's been a while, months and months, since Steve's been on the receiving end of that sort of forcefulness. It makes him want to pelt headlong down a dark tunnel, it tickles down his middle vertebrae like a spasm, and he's suddenly winded standing still.

"Joey won't be back until, like, mid-afternoon probably. Post-July Fourth and all." He licks his lips and swallows for no reason. "I'm all alone until… then. So. Can't take care of it today, probably. Maybe Joey'll take a look at it tomorrow morning if you leave it in the lot."

Hargrove scoffs and looks away, like the sun's in his eyes. Which it can't be, because it's in Steve's eyes. It shines in a halo around Hargrove's ’s blond head.

"Jesus, I don't care. Just get it fixed," and throws Steve the keys without looking as he walks away down Main Street. Steve catches them on instinct.

And then there's Hargrove's elusive third speed: _confusing_ asshole.

Joey doesn't show up until almost six. Steve's about ready to collapse, but overtime pays well and Joey is verbally appreciative that Steve's someone he can count on.

They talk about the Camaro, and Joey says he'll try to take a look at it the next day. Steve sees plainly he'd rather not bother until Monday at the earliest. It's maybe that which prompts him to say, "I can come in tomorrow. Late morning, maybe." Joey blinks owlishly. Steve shouldn't even care, but. "I could use the overtime."

It's not like he has plans, he tells himself later.

Later, he brushes his teeth while standing in the middle of his bedroom and stares at nothing. His wall, maybe, or just plain nothing at all. He then walks a circuit of his room for the time it takes to finish brushing until his teeth ache a little, bare feet dragging on the carpet. He's back in the bathroom to wash out his mouth when he glances at the mirror above the sink, not really looking _into_ it, and it's only for the moment it takes to scan his own face. He's not sure, but he thinks a phantom pain passes over the tops of his cheekbones like a ghost, there and then slipped back to wherever it came from. For an instant his vision is a blurry mess of Billy Hargrove above him, and then it's gone, too, replaced by bright fluorescent tubes. He spits one last time in the sink and it goes down the drain with a flourish.

He gets into work just after ten. The Camaro's parked in the shade of the garage and the Sunbird's gone. Steve gets to work.

He doesn't genuinely expect Hargrove to stop by. Like, he's that fucking stupid, apparently. _Of course_ he fucking shows up. Just after noon. Steve practically promised him. He swaggers into, and if he's surprised to see Steve instead of Joey working on his car, it doesn't show.

"You about done, Harrington?" he snaps.

He peers over Steve's shoulder, then backs up so he can light up. Smoke floats into the car through the open driver's side door. Steve's half-crouching in the driver's seat, manoeuvring a socket wrench to finish detaching the screws on the steering column.

Hargrove smokes through seemingly half a pack watching Steve switch out the faulty old switch with the new one. At least he does it by the garage doors rather than basically on top of the Camaro. Steve tastes ash in the back of his throat the entire time anyway.

Joey usually does the paperwork and bills customers. He left everything ready for Steve the night before, for which Steve's more than grateful. Hargrove charges it to his dad's account, which Steve somehow hadn't expected. He has to remind himself Hargrove's still a senior in high school, the paperwork showing he just turned eighteen. He thinks of the fat manilla envelope between his mattress and the box-spring, then of the For Rent sign on a small trailer on the other side of town.

When he's done with the formalities he hands Hargrove the keys. Hargrove stares at him for a beat, then reaches out to grab them from Steve's palm. Their fingers brush. Hargrove tilts his head to the side, considering, in that way he has before he usually does something infinitely stupid.

"Nice doing business with you, pretty boy."

That shit again.

"You'd better cut that shit out, or I'll start believing it soon enough," Steve says. The back of his eyes feels hot and prickly for some reason. Oddly enough, it spreads to the bridge of his nose and the top of his cheeks.

"Is that right?"

Hargrove's playing with the car keys, throwing them from one hand to the other, brushing the fingers of the hand not holding them past his mouth like he's considering… something. Like he has itchy fingers like Steve did yesterday.

Steve blinks, and then the moment's gone. Gone while his eyes were closed. Hargrove walks past him, gets in the Camaro and drives off. Steve listens to the crunch of gravel with the pit of his stomach clenching and unclenching painfully.

The rest of Saturday is his own. He spends it driving around town to look at other For Rent signs. He thinks he passes the Camaro once near Elm Street, but avoids the rear-view mirror until he's out of the intersection, which is kind of reckless or something, but there are few enough people in the streets, much less cars out onto the road he needs to watch out for.

That night he brushes his teeth in the doorway of his bedroom while fingering the ticket stub for Sunday morning. His mother left a brief message on the answering machine earlier in the day, saying they'll be gone through Monday night, too, Chicago apparently a better choice than sharing air with their only son.

There's no line for the movie. Steve didn't really think there would be. The drive there had taken him past Starcourt Mall, its parking lot full to capacity. He buys popcorn with extra butter at the concession stand in the lobby.

Technically, his seat's in the fifth row, centre aisle. He pointedly walks to the last row of the right-hand aisle. No one cares 'cause no one’s there. Like, the usher doesn't even bother following him in to show him to his seat.

Which would be an ideal situation if only, mid-way through the previews, Hargrove didn't plop down in the seat next to Steve's, who's so shocked he doesn't even protest when the guy raises both legs over the seatback next row over, crosses his ankles, and sinks a palm into Steve's tub of popcorn to steal a hefty handful.

They end up watching the movie. Together. Outraged can't quite describe what Steve's feeling.

Hargrove shushes him with relish each time he tries to yell at him to get the fuck out and kicks him in the shin when Steve tries to scramble over the seats in front of them to make a run for it.

In the end, Steve settles in to watch out of self-preservation, endeavouring to ignore the asshole. Funny thing is, he sees Hargrove out of the corner of his eye mouthing along to some of the lines. Like it's not the first time he's seen the movie.

Steve has a religious experience watching this goddamn thing. Jesus Fucking Christ. The experience is only slightly dampened by Hargrove's presence. Which kind of bugs Steve in a way he can't quite verbalise to himself.

Steve's already on his feet when the overhead lights switch on. Hargrove's still chewing on the last of _Steve's_ popcorn, not appearing to have the slightest intention of moving out of Steve's way. Just perfect.

"Do you mind?" he tries. He's fully prepared to tackle Hargrove to the ground if need be, and _then_ make a run for it. Desperate measures and all. If the asshole wants a fight, hell, Steve can oblige, too.

"You ever relax, Harrington?" Hargrove asks with that little smirk of his, head tilted dreamily, crossed ankles still lazily dangling over the seat in front.

"You ever stop being an asshole, Hargrove?" Steve snaps back.

"What you need," Hargrove goes on as if Steve hadn't spoken, "is some external help with that stick up your ass. You're too wound up," he mutters lazily.

Steve's about to say something about that, but never gets a chance to.

"Good thing we're bosom buddies now. Your Sunday is mine, King Steve, and so's your place. Mine's… unavailable. You ever get toasted?"

Steve officially loses the plot a little there. Or his mind, maybe.

"The hell?"

Is he really going to go shoot the shit with Hargrove at his house on a Sunday?

Yeah, that's a no.

"Listen," he starts as they're nearing their cars. Little victories: Hargrove finally moved aside, no violence required.

"You got anywhere else you gotta be?" Hargrove cuts him off.

It turns out Hargrove has some grade-A shit in his glove compartment. By the second toke Steve can feel all the tension in the back of his eyes dissipating. He hadn't been aware of any tension to begin with.

They smoke for a couple of minutes in companionable silence parked in the quarry, each leaning against the other's car, then just as silently they get back behind the wheel, Steve leading the way because, apparently, he's gonna go shoot the shit with Hargrove at his house on a Sunday when his parents are out of town.

They go in the front door like Hargrove's been over a hundred times instead of never.

"You got anything else to get the party rolling, Harrington?"

Steve nods towards the liquor cabinet, but doesn't linger to show Hargrove the sights. The guy can figure it out on his own. He seems to only consider it briefly, though, before he's walking close behind Steve and up the stairs to Steve's bedroom.

Steve's room is what his mother calls boy-clean; as in Steve's a slob, but it could be worse. There's a small pile of dirty laundry by the closet door and his desk is a bit of a mess of fly-away paper and open textbooks. He doesn't feel the need to apologise and Hargrove doesn't mention it. Or even seem to notice. They both toe off their shoes at the door.

Steve closes the door silently behind them, then makes his way to the window to open it a crack. Hargrove gets busy.

They both settle down to sit on the carpet leaning against the side of Steve's bed by unspoken mutual agreement.

Sharing with Hargrove in his own bedroom is weirder than sharing in the quarry in full-on sunshine. His brain sort of… settles, though. Is settling. Steve kind of feel like sharing words, too.

It's a little unsettling that it's with Billy Hargrove of all people. The guy broke a plate over his head. Guy's a menace and possibly slightly unhinged when he's not the biggest asshole on the planet. But Steve's reaching that pleasant mellowness which means he doesn't really give a shit right now. And then he doesn't feel like talking anymore.

Instead, he inhales, holds, passes it on. Counts to five and exhales a big puff of smoke, then turns to Hargrove to watch him inhale deeply. Steve can see his throat work. His eyes are closed and a small smile is floating around on his face. His own eyes feel very wide when they settle on Hargrove's mouth to watch him exhale.

His skin is too tight around his bones, so maybe he's had enough. Hargrove laughs croakily when he tells him so.

"Fucking lightweight, Harrington." But he notices Hargrove's eyes are too wide. He looks too serious around the mouth suddenly.

Steve's neck and chest and face are warm. Hargrove stubs it out in a nearby ashtray and then it's done.

They sit there breathing for far too long, Steve thinks. It's too long in a quiet room in a quiet house. Like, he should have turned on some music. Or. Like. Something other than Billy Hargrove's breathing in his ears. The sound of it is too soft.

He traces a pattern in the carpet with the toes on his left foot, the friction of his sock against the floor oddly soothing. When Hargrove shifts next to him he folds his legs to sit with his knees close to his chest. The high's quickly fading in the awkward silence which ensues. Or it's possibly awkward just for Steve. Probably just him; Billy Hargrove doesn't know awkward.

Nothing in particular makes him turn back once more to look at Hargrove. Maybe just boredom now the mellow's all but gone.

Hargrove's staring back, though, little frown between his eyes. His lashes fan out especially wide across his cheeks when he blinks, which is saying something given how they usually look, as if made special to dry Steve's throat and lick at his gut. He's always noticed them because how could he not, Jesus.

Fuck. Maybe the pot's still working its magic because he's considering... things.

And, look, he's not fucking stupid, just cautious and pragmatic when it comes to this shit. Sure-fire rejection doesn't do it for him, thank you very much. Why put yourself out there when the chances approach zero so closely you can hardly see the difference?

He doesn't expect kisses, because Billy Hargrove's mouth was made to bite and snarl and spit, not to touch against Steve's own with gentle care or rough mindlessness. Steve wants to lick at him anyway. If he can't have kisses on mouths, he might be able to make do with spit on necks, and little nips and kitten licks on collarbones before Hargrove pushes him away and throws an ashtray at his head. He's ready to try for a kiss, though, and maybe dodge a punch in the process.

It's complete assholery, not confidence, on his part that he ultimately doesn't brace himself for a hit when he touches his mouth to Hargrove's, chapped lips against chapped lips.

He approaches much too slowly, gives the asshole enough time to do his head-tilt, for Hargrove to skim his face quickly, then zero-in on Steve's mouth, flicker back to his eyes, eyelashes fluttering like moths against a flame. It's not that big of a distance to breach, actually. They're breathing the same sweet-stale air much too quickly. Hargrove's lips brush a little puff of air against his just before they touch. They feel plush and like Steve found the perfect place to push against with his own. Or. Not _perfect_ as such, but just _meant_ to be good. Billy's _good_.

It's not the sickening plunge into an abyss past him might have thought it to be. If he'd considered it, that is. Past him was an even bigger asshole than present him. It feels more like skinny-dipping in the height of summer under the white rind of a new moon. Fuck.

He pulls back for the smallest of breaths, enough for Billy to lowly mutter, "Pretty boy," and they're both diving back in again.

It doesn't make sense. Or it's the logic of nerve-endings and that simmering flush of heat up his veins… and down his pants, apparently. Billy Hargrove is just a fucking distracting person. Who makes him feel things he has no business feeling. Makes him go soft in the eyes and warm everywhere else.

A hot wire starts glowing in his midriff, then down to his stomach, lights him up from the inside. A bubble of wild laughter threatens to escape from his throat. Steve moans instead because Billy goes from brushing their lips together to opening Steve's mouth with his own and licking inside as if he has all the time in the world to taste the inside of Steve's mouth and suck on his tongue.

On an embarrassing moan Steve snatches his lips back. "Hargrove," he whispers urgently. Billy's breathing is all laboured and thick. Steve's panting as if he'd been running on the court for hours and hours.

"How about it, pretty?" Billy says all quiet, like Steve might spook. His eyes are dancing across Steve's face, a little dazed, a little too intense. "Come on, princess." All sweet like melted honey. Steve has to dive back in because how can he not.

One kiss just seems to lead to another, and another, and another, and Steve loses track.

At some point he feels one of Billy's hands in his hair, holding his skull, nails lightly raking across his scalp every couple of breaths. It makes him shiver all down his back, the fine hairs on his body standing up. He unfolds his legs from where they've been cramping against his chest, and in the next moment he's pushing against Billy's body with his own until they're in freefall. Billy's head smacks against Steve's floor and he gives out a deep groan. Steve tries to catch it with his mouth, but manages only to lick deeper into Billy's hot little mouth. It's messy and wet and it makes Steve groan, too.

After that it's so fucking _easy_ for Steve to crawl over Billy's body, to straddle his hips, to split his thighs on his hard body and press his weight down. Billy feels thick and like he's aching against the inside of Steve's thigh. Fuck, he feels thick all over where Steve's groping his chest shamelessly. Steve feels warm all over just thinking about Billy thickening against his thigh, like a fever breaking out inside all of his organs. The hand in his hair pulls at the strands when Steve grinds his own cock down against Billy's. Fuck, he can't even think, he's so hard.

Billy's hips grinding upwards, sweet as chewing on honeycomb, shouldn't shock him as much as it does. But only for a moment. Enough to adjust his thoughts. Bodies together always feel good, Steve knows. He grinds his own hips down with purpose, and Billy releases his hair and grabs at the underside of his thighs instead, right under his ass, pulls him tighter, harder against his body, starts a rhythm. It won't take long now. They never stop kissing.

Leverage, Steve thinks persistently, like a mantra. He needs leverage to fuck his cock harder against Billy's. He places his palms either side of Billy's head and really pushes his hips in, scrapes his teeth on that plump lower lip this asshole's always licking just for good measure. What comes out of his mouth on the next hard grind is more wail than moan, but he can't even muster enough concentration to feel embarrassed. He turns Billy's steady rhythm into a dirty, deep roll of hips and cocks. Feels it in his balls, that hard drag of bodies together through denim.

Next time, he thinks hysterically. _Next time_ without jeans on. And maybe in a bed.

He comes on the next exhale with a punched-out breath against Billy's lips. He rolls his hips down and splits his thighs to their very limit until Billy convulses underneath him, too. Gives him one last hard grind to make them both shudder one more time. That tiny bit of pain is just as sweet as the kisses.

The room's full of the sound of their heavy panting. Their mouths are still touching, feather-light now, breaths exhaled into each other's mouths.

"Fuck," Steve pants. He raises his head and thinks his arms might give out. They do give out after another hitching breath. His forearms land with a thud next to Billy's head, caging him in even more effectively than Steve's palms. The thought of it makes his spent cock give a little twitch that's not entirely uncomfortable.

Billy stares at him, looking a little dazed, eyes unfocused. The bridge of his nose and the tips of his cheekbones are a paler pink than that of his clever little tongue. Steve can't help but to notice.

"Yeah," he finally says. Although it's quiet, the word seems to bounce around Steve's room. Or maybe just inside Steve's head.

_Yeah._

"Fuck," he says again.

Billy breaks out into an uncharacteristically warm grin just then.

"Tell me about it, pretty boy." There's a sweet rasp in his voice and promise, too.

Steve can't do anything but breathe in deep.

**Author's Note:**

> ETA March 30th '19: I'm sort of back on [this Hellsite](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/). If you wanna chat or whatever. You do you. <3


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